They Say It's Like Hell
by arrenallwise
Summary: A night of coming to grips after Born Under a Bad Sign


"Dude, hand 'em over, I'm drivin'," Sam said as he swung around with his hand out.

Dean slowly brought up the rear, three paces back, and veered off to swing around the back of the car to the driver's side. "No, 'm okay."

"Dean, you're barely on your feet. Gimme the keys and don't argue," Sam continued to hold his hand out blocking Dean's path.

Dean stopped and sighed. Sam was right, he could barely put one foot in front of the other, but his trust had been shaken. He eyed his brother, glanced at the white bandage wrapped around his forearm.

It was Sam again. He knew it in his heart; his head just needed a little time to catch up. His head hurt, his shoulder hurt, his face was numb from the repeated blows, but he knew soon it would probably be a mass of bruises and pain. He'd been unconscious on the motel room floor for God knows how long the night before. It would be a miracle if he didn't have a concussion.

He sighed and shook his head, fiddling with the keys as if arguing with himself. He doubted he could drive a straight line anyway. He had already driven an hour from Bobby's house until they had to stop for gas.

He handed the keys over silently and reversed course to the passenger side door, reaching out to steady himself on the car. Sam shuffled past him, reached around him and opened the door. He put a hand under Dean's arm to help him in. Dean flinched, but didn't shrug him off. He would have to make a determined effort to trust Sam's presence and touch again.

This one had been bad. Sam had hurt him, and almost killed him this time. Dean could have stopped it, but killing the demon while it was in Sam's body was unacceptable. He would rather have died.

Dean sunk into the seat, leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He heard the soft squeak of denim on leather and felt the car dip as Sam settled behind the wheel, He flinched when Sam pulled the door closed, rocking the car. The engine roared to life a moment later, the familiar vibrating rumble of the seat under them started, and Sam pulled slowly away from the Shop n'Go.

"You okay?" Sam's voice was low and quiet.

Dean opened his eyes and watched his brother's profile. His face was set, staring at the road ahead, his eyes wet, almost overflowing, his jaw muscles working.

"I'm okay, Sam. Don't do this. It wasn't you."

"I could've killed you, Dean. I remember some of it. I shot you for God's sake!" his voice broke.

Dean leaned his head back, closed his eyes again and pulled his left arm closer to his body. "Yeah, well lucky for me you're a crappy shot."

Sam was silent for a long time, and Dean drifted off, lulled by the smooth, straight blacktop and the hum of the tires.

Sam pulled the car into the poorly lit parking lot of the Palomino Motel beneath the sign with the neon rearing horse, and cut the engine. The office was brightly lit, an island of picture-framed fluorescent light in a sea of black. Sam could see an older woman in a loud muumuu smoking a brown cigarette and reading a tabloid behind the counter. A small TV hung on the wall where Letterman was being ignored in favor of The Star.

With the engine turned off, Sam could hear the buzz of the neon sign, and the raindrops hitting the roof of the car. He sat for a moment and looked over at his brother sleeping next to him. Dean was slumped low in the seat; his head resting on the window, raindrops casting shadows on his face. His breathing was regular but noisy and fast. Dean's right arm cradled his left at the elbow. Sam reached over and laid the back of his hand on Dean's cheek. He was warm and damp as if the shadows of the rain wet his face. Dean did not stir.

Sam opened his door and unfolded his long legs to get out of the car. He left the door slightly ajar so he wouldn't have to close it and wake Dean before he had to.

The check-in was mercifully brief. Muumuu-woman wanted him out of her office so she could return to Brad Pitt's alien love child, as badly as Sam wanted out. As he returned to the car, sloshing through puddles, he sniffed his shirt confirming that the haze of smoke that filled the office had followed him back to the parking lot.

Sam managed to get back in the car and start her up without Dean so much as twitching an eyelash. He pulled the car around the L-shaped motel to park directly in front of their room. He opened the room and made several trips back and forth to the car to unload their gear before returning for Dean.

Finally, Sam opened Dean's door and squatted down to eye-level with him. Dean was pale and sweaty. His lips were slightly parted and his breathing was faster than it should be. Sam ran a hand through his damp hair, "Dean?"

Dean stirred and opened his eyes, and looked around, "Wha'?"

"I stopped at a motel. C'mon, let's get you to bed," Sam said as he reached around his shoulders.

"Pick me up and die, dude," Dean rasped as though his pipes had rusted from disuse.

Sam stopped and grinned as he helped Dean up until he was standing. Dean leaned on Sam's shoulder more than he'd like, but walked into the room on his own legs. "You been smoking, dude?" Sam grinned but didn't answer as he helped Dean to sit on the closest bed and began taking Dean's jacket off.

Dean batted his hand away, "I can do it. Get me some water, Florence." He added a soft "please" a moment later. Damn he hurt, he was tired, and his face was beginning to un-numb.

"Sure," Sam muttered and hurried off to the bathroom.

Dean pulled his right arm out of the jacket sleeve and very carefully peeled it down his left. Then he repeated the process with his shirt, leaving only his brown tee with the ripped-off sleeve. His hand was swollen probably from laying in his lap for hours, and the shoulder joint ached appallingly. The shoulder almost made him forget that his head felt as though it was overfilled with a bicycle pump.

Sam returned and handed him a glass of water and then grabbed the ice bucket. "I'll be right back, I'm gonna go get some ice," and he disappeared out the door.

Dean set the water down, reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out the pain pills Jo had given him. He didn't know what they were, but at this point, didn't much care. Maybe if they were poison, or he was horribly allergic, he'd die and at least he'd be out of his misery. One could hope, he thought.

He tried to flip the lid off with his right hand. "Damn kid proof…mother…" He tried using both hands, but the left one was numb and he couldn't make it do what he wanted. His fingers felt as big as sausages and twice as useless. "Son of a…" He let both hands drop to his lap, too exhausted to wrestle with a fucking pill bottle and too weak to chuck it across the room. If he had his gun he'd shoot it open. He wasn't sure he could pull the trigger, but he grinned at the thought.

Sam came back, the damp night smell following him in and set the bucket of ice on the table. He shook raindrops out of his hair, and stripped off his jacket, tossing it at a chair, missing, and not caring. He took the bottle gently from Dean's hand. "What are these?"

"I dunno, something Jo gave me for pain. I can't get the damn cap off. You got a gun on you?" he asked hopefully.

Sam flickered a what-the-hell-oh-yeah three-second gaze at his brother, and then turned the amber plastic in his hands. There was no label. He took off the cap and poured two into his palm. "Vicodin."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I've seen enough of these to know them when I see 'em. It's what they gave me for my hand. Here," he handed Dean the two tablets.

Dean swallowed them together chased by water followed by a satisfying burp. Sam grinned and took the glass from him. Even beat and shot to shit, Dean never failed to amuse.

"C'mon, let's get you down and that arm up." Sam pulled the covers down while Dean attempted to rise off them. A half-inch was all he could manage, but it was enough. He sank back down with a drawn out moan.

Sam reached for Dean's legs and swung them up on the bed as Dean turned and rested his head on the pillow with a grunt. His breath hitched painfully and he squeezed his eyes closed, his right arm grasped the left and hugged it tightly to his body. "Damn, hell, shit, fuck," he muttered like a mantra until the firestorm in his shoulder eased off to a roar.

Sam took a plastic bag out of the trashcan, filled it with ice from the bucket and wrapped it in a towel. He then sat on Dean's bed and gently laid the ice pack on Dean's shoulder, pushing it under his shirt. This elicited a new round of epithets, with a few thrown in that Sam had never heard actually come out of his brother's mouth before. It sounded suspiciously like George Carlin's "Seven Words You Can't Say on TV". They had been the first curse words they had learned as kids. Sam picked them up from a friend of Dean's even before he knew what half of them meant. He could still recite them as easily as the Pledge of Allegiance.

Sam took the extra pillow on the bed and lifted Dean's arm to lie on top of it, elevating his arm above his heart.

Dean was still dealing with the explosions in his shoulder and didn't even notice until minutes later that Sam had already taken his shoes and socks off and had pulled the bed covers over his feet.

The shocking pain was receding slowly and Dean felt his head begin to swim. He recognized the languid haze of narcotic bliss begin to settle over him like a light blanket. Either that or it was a bitch of a concussion.

"You okay?" Sam asked quietly after a moment.

No, dude, my head feels it's in a vise, my shoulder feels like someone dug their thumb into an open bullet hole and wiggled it around some, and my arm feels like a tree trunk. No, he couldn't lay that on Sam now, so he nodded, "Mm hmm. " 

Sam pulled the sheet, blanket and spread over up to his waist and sat for a minute watching him breathe. He wanted to look at the shoulder wound, but he didn't think Dean could take much more tonight. He'd do it first thing in the morning. Dean's breathing had slowed, but he still was too warm.

After a few minutes, Sam got up and quietly went about getting ready for bed. Not that he'd sleep, he thought ruefully. That seemed a tad out of the question seeing as how a freakin' demon from hell took up in his body and nearly killed his brother…and Jo.

"Oh God. Jo!" He darted for his jacket which he'd flung off earlier. It had settled on the floor, waiting patiently for him to notice. He found Jo's name in the dialer, pushed the button and jittered impatiently while it rang, hoping she had not changed her number recently. He hadn't called her in…

"Jo! It's Sam. Are you okay?"

He was greeted with silence, but he could here her breathing.

"Jo, it's really me. I'm so sorry about…"

"Is Dean with you?"

Sam swung around and looked at Dean, now completely flaked out on the bed. "Yeah, yeah he's right here."

"Let me talk to him," she said suspiciously.

"He's sleeping, Jo, he's…"

"If you're Sam, let me speak to him," she paused, waiting. "Now!"

"Okay, okay, anything. I'll do anything Jo, just please believe me when I say how sorry I am. It wasn't me."

She waited. Held her breath, and waited.

Sam took the phone with him and stood over Dean. "Dean?"

He sat on the edge of the bed and put his hand on the covers over Dean's chest. "Dean, wake up." 

Dean moaned and tried to turn away. "Lemme alone, Sam."

"Dean I know you want to sleep, but Jo has to talk to you. She thinks I've killed you or something. I dunno," he muttered.

Dean's eyes blinked open, sluggishly at first and then he forced them open wide. "Jo? She here?" His head felt like a bowling ball, but he lifted it to look around briefly before it sank back deeply into the pillow.

"No, she's here," he waggled the phone in front of Dean's face, "on the phone."

Dean tried to focus on it. He reached out for it, but missed. Sam grabbed his hand and slapped the phone into it.

Dean put it up to his ear. "Jo? That you?"

"Dean! Are you okay? What happened?"

"I'm okydokey, Jo. I found Sam and we're both okydokey."

Sam smiled, _oh man, you are so wasted_ , he thought, amused as Dean listened with as much attention as he could muster.

Sam could hear only Dean's side of the conversation, but that was interesting enough. Dean's hand holding the phone slowly sunk to the pillow and he turned his ear into it, still listening, but with eyes closed.

"Mm hmm. No, no, no, it's gone now. We excised…exer…ex…," he took a deep breath and sighed, "we got it out of 'im. Me an' Bobby."

Dean's side of the conversation deteriorated into a series of "mm-hmms" until finally he stopped responding altogether except in soft snores. Sam pulled the phone from Dean's lax fingers. "Jo? You still there?"

"Is he really okay?"

"Yeah, thanks to you. It's a good thing you got that bullet out. And the pain pills have helped a lot."

"He wasn't too grateful last time I saw him."

"Yeah, he's a bear of a patient, but believe me, he's grateful." Sam looked at his brother, his fingers still curled around an invisible phone. He reached over and moved Dean's hand back under the covers. "When he's better, I'll make sure he calls you, okay?"

"You don't have to, Sam. Just take care of each other," Jo said. She sounded sad, Sam thought.

"We always do. And, Jo, I'm really sorry about…"

"I know, Sam. It's over with now. See ya later?"

Sam smiled, "You bet. Oh, and Jo, call your Mom. She misses you."

"Sure, Sam," and after a beat, they both disconnected.

Sam sat and stared at the phone for a moment. He owed Jo, big time. He'd make it up to her somehow.

Sam took a long, hot shower until his skin was scrubbed raw. He couldn't scrub hard enough to get the stench of demon off. He emerged clean, wet and red as a lobster. He pulled on fresh boxers and his favorite Stanford t-shirt, the one that Jess loved the best because it was so soft. It was too full of holes now to wear during the day, but it was his favorite for nighttime. Dean said it was going to disintegrate the next time he washed it. It hadn't yet, but he knew one day he'd have to part with it.

He grabbed an ice cube out of the bucket and held it against the burn on his arm until it was numb from the cold, then he smeared aloe cream on it, and re-wrapped it.

He turned off all the lights except one small one on the table between the beds which he put on its dimmest setting, and crawled under the covers, turning to face his brother. He would have liked one of those Vicodin, but he knew they put him out, but good, and he wanted to be alert if Dean needed him. Besides, chances were, Dean would need them all.

Dean's face was turned slightly away. Better, so Sam wasn't reminded of the damage he'd done to the other side with his own fist. From this side, Dean looked normal. Pale, but peaceful. Sam could hear the faint puffs of breath coming from Dean's slightly parted lips. He closed his eyes, and counted the breaths.

Sam startled awake. He bolted upright before he even knew what had awakened him. He looked around in the dim room. The crack between the curtains was dark, so it was still nighttime. He glanced at the clock. 3:55.

Dean was restless. He moved under the blankets, his feet pushing down as if trying to push the blankets off. Now he heard it. Soft moans, fast shallow breathing. Sam scrambled out of the tangle of his own covers and spanned the three feet between the beds with a lunge. He sat on Dean's bed and felt his forehead. It was hot and wet. His fever had climbed.

"Dean, shhhh, it's okay. You're okay," he murmured as he pulled the sodden ice bag and towel from under Dean's t-shirt. The ice had long since melted and the water radiant heat-warmed from Dean himself.

"Hot," Dean said. "Sammy, I'm hot."

"I know, I know. Your fever's up." He stood and went to the small table where he'd left the ice bucket. The water in the bottom had slivers of ice left and was still cool. He dipped the towel into it, wrung it out and went back to Dean. He folded the towel and placed it on Dean's forehead. "Dean, shhhh, be still."

"Blanket."

"Yeah, okay." Sam stood and folded the bedspread down to the bottom of the bed. He left the light blanket and sheet, which Dean pushed down himself with his good hand.

"You okay for a minute? I need to get more ice."

Dean nodded, but didn't speak.

Sam dashed out with the bucket and returned a moment later with it filled. He refilled the plastic trash bag, this time tearing off all of the extra plastic until just a small pouch was left, tied it off and replaced it on Dean's shoulder. Then he got another washcloth from the bathroom, wet it with cool water and sponged off Dean's face, neck and arms.

When he finished he pulled the covers back up and waited. After a few minutes, Dean reached up with his good hand and pulled the towel off his forehead and held it out to Sam.

Sam took it and re-wet it, wrung it out and handed it back to him. Dean held it to his face for a moment, pressing it to the dark bruises that were evident even in the dim light. "Damn," he muttered as he winced.

"God, Dean, I'm…"

"Shut up, Sammy. I don't wanna hear you're sorry again. For the last time, you didn't do this."

Sam nodded, but the tears still ran unchecked down his face.

"Was Jo here before?" Dean asked sleepily after a minute.

Sam grinned, "Uh, no. Don't you remember? You talked to her on the phone."

"Oh," Dean said, clearly not remembering. "Thought she was here."

"Why don't you take some more Vicodin and try to go back to sleep?"

"n'kay."

Sam snagged the bottle from the table and filled a cup with water. He helped Dean to raise up, but the effort clearly exhausted Dean, and he flopped back down a little too quickly. "Shit! Remind me not to do that again."

"I'll do that. You okay now?"

"Do I look okay?" Dean said, irritably.

"No. You look like hammered shit."

"That just about covers it then."

Sam sat for a half hour on his own bed, watching. When Dean began to shiver, he pulled the bedspread back over him. A little while later Dean quieted, and Sam crawled back into his own bed and tried to salvage what was left of the night.

When Sam woke again, a sharp shaft of light pierced the crack in the curtains and bled around the edges, but the room itself was cool and dark. He could hear rain falling. He yawned, stretched, and rose up on his elbows to blearily look around. His blankets were at the bottom of the bed, tangled around his feet.

The bed next to his was empty. He gave a little start, then relaxed when he realized the rain he was hearing was actually the shower. He pulled his feet out and swung them around to the floor. He scrubbed both hands through his hair and over his face, then stood and stretched the kinks out.

The clock read 8:45, and seemingly in response to that bit of news, his stomach growled. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so late. He pulled on some clean jeans and a tee and began searching for clean socks and his shoes.

He was on his knees digging a shoe out from under the bed when the bathroom door opened and steam billowed out.

Dean was leaning and holding on to the door and looked paler than some of the dead things they'd hunted. Sam was on his feet in an instant and had one arm around Dean guiding him back to bed. Half way, Dean's knees gave way.

"Okay, okay let's just stop here for a sec," Sam said as he lowered Dean to the foot of his own bed.

Dean was wet and hot, but his arms and chest were covered with goose bumps. He had on boxers, but that was the extent of his attire. His breathing was rapid, and he seemed to have trouble holding his head up. "Okay, maybe that wasn't such a hot idea," Dean gasped out after a moment.

"You could have waited for me to help."

"Or I could have just slit my wrists which is what I'd do before I'd let you help me take a leak," he paused to take a few deep breaths. "I just figured since I was in there, a shower might feel good, mmmhhmm," he finished with a half-groan, his lips tight and his eyes squeezed tighter.

Sam went to the bathroom and brought back a towel to get the worst of the drips out of Dean's hair. Then he laid the towel around his shoulders, as Dean was shivering again. The bandage that Jo had put on was a sodden mess and tinged with pink, but Sam resisted pulling it off until Dean was lying down. The entire shoulder was one massive bruise.

"Think you can make it to bed now?"

Dean waited a moment and then nodded, steeling himself. He used Sam's knee to push off with and stood more or less bent over, and shuffled the last few feet to his own bed. "Get me a clean shirt willya, Sam?"

"Sure, but let me change that bandage first, okay?"

Dean lay back, his left arm tight against his chest, "Geez, I was afraid you were gonna say that," he spat out between clenched teeth.

Sam pulled the covers up to Dean's waist and then set about trying to find their first aid kit. It had been a staple of their luggage since they were kids. Dad had always insisted on one, and both Sam and Dean had always worked to keep theirs well stocked, gathering odds and ends; a clinic here, a Walmart there. There was nothing more inconvenient than having to run out to the store for something when one or the other, or both of them were bleeding. Mini mart and drug store employees notice that kind of thing.

Sam sat on the edge of the bed with the box on his knees. Before he started, he made Dean take two more of the Vicodin, which Dean was more than willing to do.

"Think I'm gonna get addicted to these things and have to go to Promises?" Dean smirked. "Hey, maybe Lindsey Lohan will still be there."

"You have a bullet hole in your shoulder and your face looks like you were just carried out of the ring with Holyfield, and you still have a one-track mind," Sam grinned, rummaging through their supplies.

He started pulling the tape off from around the edges and Dean grabbed the first thing he could find, the bedspread, and squeezed. "Take it easy there, Florence, that's not that damned won't-stick-to-the-owie stuff."

Luckily the hot water of the shower had loosened the tape and the gauze pulled off easily. The hole was dark and raised, and the entire area swollen, but had already begun to close up. "It looks pretty good, Dean," he lied, trying not to gag, "not infected that I can see," Sam mused as he pressed around it.

"Then don't poke at it, dude!"

Sam jerked back. "I'm not poking, I'm just checking to see if there's any pus gonna come out or anything."

"Okay, I think that's enough there, Clara, just cover it back up and give me a friggin' shirt!"

"Let me clean it first. Just take a sec." Sam wet a cotton ball with Witchhazel and swabbed the wound, and then all around it, changing to a clean cotton ball with each swipe outward like Dad had taught them. Even though Dean hissed, Sam knew Witchhazel didn't sting. "Quit bein' a baby."

Dean looked at him, did a double take, then sighed and looked away.

"What?"

"Nothin', just get done already, it's cold."

By the time Sam had it re-bandaged and was sliding a white tee up Dean's left arm and over his head, Sam was sweating and Dean was limp. He didn't like hurting Dean, and he was as relieved as Dean that it was over. It could have been so much worse. He thought it _was_ worse after that fever last night. As it was, it was going to take a long time to work the soreness out of that shoulder.

When Sam finally pulled the shirt all the way down, Dean slapped his hand away. "Okay, enough already." He gingerly turned over on his right side and Sam handed him a pillow to support his left arm.

"You are such a jerk when you're hurt."

"Bitch," Dean mumbled into the pillow that he hugged.

"Yeah, that too," Sam smiled.

Sam thought Dean was already asleep when he heard a faint, "Thanks, Sammy."

Sam left the room long enough to go to the diner across the highway to get some take out. He'd struck up a flirty conversation with the bee-hive headed waitress, and when she found out his brother was sick, insisted on him taking some chicken soup, and lemonade, both of which "are good fer what ails ya", according to Margie.

The soup would be cold by the time Dean was awake enough to eat any, but he could re-heat it in the easy-bake sized microwave in the corner. _Where the hell do these places find these miniature appliances_ , he thought as he shoved the soup container in the mini refrigerator.

Dean slept all day, only waking once to go to the bathroom. He had managed to make it there and back with no help, and promptly went back to sleep, not wanting anything to eat. Sam worried about him being dehydrated, but decided sleep was what he needed most. He'd wake him up later if he didn't wake up by himself.

The next time Dean awoke was after sundown and Sam knew immediately that his temperature was rising again.

"Dean, you have to drink something. You're dehydrated and this fever is making it worse." He was able to get Dean to drink about half of the extra large lemonade from the diner, but he wouldn't take any soup.

After Dean lay back down and was panting, he looked at Sam, stared really, and for so long that Sam became uncomfortable.

"What? You want some more?" he said, holding up the cup.

Dean shook his head.

"Then what is it?"

After a moment, Dean blinked, and then sighed. "Nothin' really, just thinkin' about Meg. About the girl Meg, not the…you know."

"Yeah, I know."

"Wonder what she was like."

"Guess we won't know."

They were both silent for a few minutes.

"Dean, I think we did the right thing, getting that thing out of her. She wanted it out, even if it meant…"

"Yeah, maybe."

"No maybe, Dean! She said it. She thanked you! Believe me, if I had a choice of living with a demon in my body, keeping it alive, or dying to get rid of it, you know what I'd choose and you'd better keep that in mind if that ever, you know…happens."

"It did happen."

"No, not like that. My body could survive without it. Her's couldn't."

"She didn't deserve that. She didn't ask for it," Dean went on as if he hadn't heard, his eyes had filled with tears.

"No, she didn't," he agreed.

"I killed her as if I'd taken a gun…"

"Dean, stop it! What's the matter with you? You did not kill Meg."

"…and that guy. The one I shot in the head. Did you see the way he looked surprised? I wonder if it was the human guy at the last second…"

"Dean, enough already. Hey, how 'bout trying some of that soup I brought you? I'll heat up a little."

Dean still stared at something only he could see.

"Dean."

Finally Dean blinked and looked at Sam. "No, I don't want anything. I think I'd just throw up anyway."

"Well, you've got to eat something. Tomorrow morning, I'm going to get you some scrambled eggs and damnit you're going to eat."

"Screw you, Florence."

"Yeah, bakatcha."

After laying in silence, staring at the ceiling, Dean finally sighed and looked over at his brother, tapping on the keys of the computer. "We got anymore of that lemonade?"

"Sure," Sam happily scrambled off the bed and went to the refrigerator. "How's the shoulder feel?"

"About as good as the head."

"That bad, huh." Dean had not been able to tolerate light all day and the nausea kept him from eating or moving around much.

"I'll be okay tomorrow. I wanna hit the road. Get out of this burg."

"Okay, you just keep telling yourself that, Skippy," Sam laughed as he handed Dean the lemonade along with a couple of Vicodin.

Dean waved them away, "No, just some Advil. That stuff makes me stupid."

"Okay, Dean," Sam teased as he went for the first aid kit, "but I don't think it's the Vicodin making you stupid."

"Bite me."

At two am, Sam's head nodded over the computer when he started and the computer slid off his lap. He made a quick grab and managed to rescue it before it hit floor.

Dean was thrashing around, mumbling. Sam couldn't understand but a word here and there. He heard his name a couple of times, and Meg's. Dean's face was flushed and wet and water, sweat? tears? pooled in the hollow beneath his closed eyes. His eyelashes were stuck together in clusters.

Sam set the computer on the floor and moved over to Dean's bed. His forehead was too hot again. "Damnit, when is this going to be over?" he mumbled.

He wondered, not for the first time if he should have taken Dean to the hospital first thing. He was tired, and he doubted his ability to cope with Dean's injuries. What if he had brain damage? What if the bullet wound was infected and he was just too stupid to realize it? What if Jo hadn't gotten it all out?

He sighed and wiped a hand over his tired face. Yeah, he could see himself walking into the ER and explaining what had happened to his brother. "Well, Doc, you see first I bashed him in the head with the butt of a gun, then I shot him in the shoulder, then I pummeled his face for good measure. Oh, but no, sir, we're actually very close…"

"Dean?" he called as he stood and retrieved the washcloth from the ice bucket, dipped it in the cold water and brought it back. He laid it across Dean's forehead. "C'mon, Dean, wake up for me."

Dean moaned and tried to turn his head away. "Oh no you don't, c'mon, you need to wake up and talk to me," Sam insisted. He took the washcloth and wiped the sweat from Dean's face.

Dean didn't seem to want to let go of whatever dream had him in its clutches.

Finally, familiar green eyes looked up at him. The light was dim, but Dean's eyes were bright with fever. "Wha' time is it?" he croaked, his throat dry, as he slapped Sam's hand away.

"It's two in the morning and you're keeping me awake."

"So you had to wake me up to tell me that?"

"Yeah, you think you could keep it down a little over here, fella, some of us are trying to sleep."

Dean looked at him puzzled. "What the hell…"

"You were having a nightmare," Sam finally stopped teasing. "You okay?" he said as he got up and went to the refrigerator. He poured some lemonade in a paper cup and brought four Advil back with him.

Dean rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "I guess so," he mumbled, trying to rub away the cobwebs.

"Here," Sam said as he handed Dean the pills and held the glass for him while he rose up on his elbow. "You wanna talk about it?"

Dean swallowed the pills and finished off the whole cup of lemonade. "Don't remember." He lay back down. "I sure as hell am getting sick of this bed."

"Are you trying to change the subject?"

"I really don't remember, Sam. Let it go. It was just a dream. "

"Okay. Want me to stay up with you for awhile?"

"No, go back to bed. I'm fine."

Dean slept the rest of the night and the better part of the next day, his desire to hit the road forgotten in a morning of dizziness, nausea and scrambled eggs, which tasted a whole lot better going down than they had coming back up.

He was able to keep juice down, and Sam pushed it whenever Dean was awake. Things had improved enough by day four that they were talking about leaving the next day.

"Yeah, if you can keep your eggs down."

"Ugh, no eggs. Pancakes."

"Okay, deal, pancakes it is. And I'm drivin'."

"The hell!"

"You argue and you get another day in bed."

"Next time you decide to shoot me, I'm getting another nurse."

"That might be sooner than you think if you don't behave yourself."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."


End file.
